


The VG Story That Will Remain Nameless Forever (or, rather, The One Where Jerry Devine Was a Genie In a Bottle)

by micehell



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, a tiny bit of crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-18
Updated: 2006-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:52:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur makes three wishes... though perhaps he should have read the fine print first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The VG Story That Will Remain Nameless Forever (or, rather, The One Where Jerry Devine Was a Genie In a Bottle)

**Author's Note:**

> This can definitely be taken as a sequel to the story [Be Careful What You Wish For](http://archiveofourown.org/works/471325), but the story stands on its own anyway. There might be an eensy little bit of confusion over why Cecil is in the bathroom without having read the previous story, but you'll get it in context. ;)
> 
> There will be small amounts of OOC behavior from various people in the fic (especially Curt), but it will make sense eventually (mostly)!

1.  
Arthur spun the bottle. A few leftover drops of beer sprayed out, hitting table, floor, and Arthur's shirt as the bottle danced around the uneven surface of the table. Since the bottle was from his twelfth beer, the fact that his shirt was now damp and beery barely registered. Actually very little registered with Arthur right then, his concentration taken up wholly in the smooth, green glass, in the effort required to keep it spinning, in the thoughts that wouldn’t leave his head.

Spin.

_How could I have been so stupid? I should have checked my sources better, not trusted that Walters didn't have his own agenda. It was a beginner's mistake, and Lou will probably never trust me again. Not after I've made a fool not only of myself, but out of the paper as well._

Spin.

_And now I can kiss my raise goodbye, and, shit, we really need the money. Curt's always broke, I'm always broke. We live in this tiny, rundown flat, eat ramen noodles a lot. We're grown men, for heaven's sake, one of whom was a successful musician; shouldn't we be better off than this?_

Spin.

_And Curt… he's going to leave, I just know it. We started out so well. Everything was great then, the sex, and, hell, just hanging around together. I loved listening to him play for me. But the songs are getting darker again, and I don't know why. And I try, I try so hard to get him to tell me what's wrong. To get him to talk about things. Hell, I even read an issue of Cosmopolitan just to get some relationship clues, that's how desperate I am. I can get him to smile, and I can get him to touch me, but no matter how much I hint, or ask, or meet him at the door in nothing but Saran Wrap - though, actually, he kind of liked that one - hell, no matter how much I tell him that I love him, he won't ever say it back. Probably because he wouldn't mean it._

Spin.

When his thoughts started to repeat, Arthur decided it was time for another beer. Thirteen had always been his lucky number. The waitress had another one set in front of him in short order, hardly any one else being in the bar at this time of day. One of the advantages to being on the outs at work was that no one questioned when he left early. So he was free to come here to this run down bar, where the beers were cheap, and no one cared that he was avoiding work. Avoiding home. 

He tilted the bottle to take a deep drink, but beer-numb fingers slipped and he had to scramble not to drop it, winding up with even more beer on his shirt. It occurred to him, in a dim kind of way, that maybe thirteen was few beers too many. He rubbed the bottle against his forehead, hoping the cool surface would clear his head.

But everything got hazier. Literally. A large cloud of smoke came streaming out of the top of the bottle, surrounding Arthur, making him cough, and by the time he'd stopped, the smoke had cleared, though it'd left something behind.

Sitting at the table, wisps of smoke still swirling around him, was Jerry Devine. As if this in itself wasn't odd enough, Jerry was wearing a red velvet turban, a black leather Nehru jacket, bright blue lipstick, and what appeared to be some of highest platform shoes that Arthur had ever seen, studded all over with rhinestones.

He should have known thirteen was pushing it. "Okay, I've obviously had too much to drink." Arthur didn’t know why he was telling that to a figment of his imagination, but some latent politeness that his parents had managed to drill into him also made him add, "I'll just be going home now. Nice to have met you, Mr. Devine."

But Jerry pointed a finger at him and said, "Sit," and Arthur couldn't get up, an invisible weight pressing him back into his chair. He'd been pretty sure that all he'd had was beer, but he was starting to wonder if someone had slipped him something.

He looked at Jerry suspiciously, but he got distracted by Jerry's nails, which were the same shade as his lips. The nails were distracting Jerry as well, as he had them up in front of his face, studying them. "When they gave me the uniform, I was thinking that the turban was a bit much, but I do have to admit I kind of fancy the nails."

Arthur was drawing a blank on what he should say, so he just repeated, "Uniform?"

Jerry put his hands down, turning to Arthur with a slick smile. "Uniform. You don't think I'd _choose_ to dress like this, do you? This sort of thing was more Brian's style. I could be jealous of Cecil, because his god doesn't make him dress any differently than he normally would, but then he's got a shit gig serving the Porcelain god, so there you go. And this is just temporary for me. I have calls out, plans in motion and all."

"Porcelain god?" was Arthur's next attempt at making sense of the whole thing.

Jerry flapped his hand at Arthur, dismissing Cecil with a flash of pearly blue. "Poor sod, never could do anything right. But let's get down to business, shall we? You're wondering why I'm here. Well, I, in a temporary capacity, as I said, am representing the interests of a certain… shall we say god? Yes, well, supernatural being, god, whatever nomenclature makes you comfortable. And this being's interests include granting three wishes to interested parties. Interested parties who are determined by certain conditions, those being the rubbing of various bottles, lamps, coffee mugs, and the occasional sexual aid…" he trailed off, a small smile gracing his face as he relived what was obviously a fond memory.

Arthur finally managed to get himself back under control. This was all a dream, obviously, and it was just a matter of time before he woke up. He pinched himself, but the beer had made him pretty numb before this whole thing had started, so he wasn't sure it was that effective a test. Maybe if he shouted?

The only thing the shout produced was a sigh from Jerry. "Yes, well if that's out of your system now, maybe I could finish what I was saying. Once the proper object has been rubbed, as it were, then the wish contract is offered, which is where I come in. Now, those three wishes are yours, and totally yours, no strings attached, but… there are certain conditions to the wishes themselves."

Arthur was sure there had to be something he could say, something brilliant and concise that would put this whole strange trip into perspective, but though he was mostly sure his echo of, "Conditions?" wasn't it, he really couldn't come up with anything better.

Jerry was looking at him like he was brain dead, which Arthur thought was pretty unfair, considering the man was a figment of Arthur's imagination, and therefore owed his existence to said brain, but Jerry just tapped the very blue nails against the table impatiently and sighed again. "Yes, conditions. Now, condition number one is that the wishes have to be totally self related. In other words, selfish." 

Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again when Jerry said what he'd been going to. "Yes, selfish. Do keep up here, Arthur. In other words, no world peace, no bringing people back from the dead… though I guess that could be for selfish reasons, but still, no. And no wishing that _Wake Me Up Before You Go Go_ had never been recorded, even though I totally agree, but I've already tried, and that just led to _We Built This City_. I shudder to think what would happen if we meddled further."

"How about making people fall in love with you, is that okay?" Arthur was a little surprised that he was playing along with this, but he had to admit that it was something that he'd wished for before, something he'd wished for lately, far too often, and as he was already in the dream, what could it hurt to play along?

Jerry raised one eyebrow at him, obviously well aware of where Arthur's thoughts were by the smirk on his lips. Which, figment of his imagination, so yeah, why wouldn't he know? But Arthur still felt his face heat in a blush at the idea that Jerry would know how pathetic he was, figment or no. And could you feel blushes in your dreams?

"Love wishes are quite popular, and perfectly selfish, so no problem there. Is that what you want to wish for?"

Even though it was pathetic, Arthur was thinking about it. The thought of being able to make sure that Curt was as in love with Arthur as Arthur was in love with him was a seductive one, illusion or no. 

Three wishes, three wishes. And three problems that he'd been trying to drown in beer earlier this evening. It was like fate, except for that whole thing about it being all in his head. But since it was a dream, what could it hurt to ask?

Before he could, though, Jerry held up his hand. "There is one other condition you should be aware of - and these nails really are quite lovely, don't you think?" He arched his hand, studying the nails from various angles before he looked back at Arthur. "Oh, yes, where was I? Other condition, yes, well, whatever you wish for is permanent. Wish for it, and it's yours… for always. No do-overs, no take-backs, no morning after regrets."

Considering that it was just too silly to worry about consequences when it was all just a dream, Arthur didn’t even hesitate. "Fine, I accept the wishes, even with the conditions."

Jerry's grin was sly, a fox who'd had a chicken drop by for a visit. "What do you want, then?"

"I want all my problems at work to go away, I want to have so much money I'll never have to worry about it again… and I want Curt to love me just the way I love him."

"Done."

With that, Jerry Devine disappeared in another cloud of smoke, which set Arthur to coughing again. When the smoke cleared, the only thing that was left at the table was thirteen beer bottles, and what looked like a chicken feather. 

Arthur felt tired all of a sudden, the weight of his troubles and the shit-load of beer he'd drank pulling him down. He rested his arms on the table, using them to pillow his head, as the lure of sleep called to him. Could you dream about going to sleep? Arthur was too far gone to care about it, or the feather that was poking him in the forehead, as he sank into comforting darkness.

~*~

2.  
Arthur woke an hour later when the waitress poked at his shoulder, asking, "Do you need anything else?" The unspoken "I let you sleep until business started to pick up but now paying customers need the table, so order or get out" was heavy in her voice, but nothing else. Arthur figured that meant his little melt down earlier had either gone unnoticed or at least hadn't been any weirder than what other people that hung around the bar in the middle of the day tended to do.

The headache that was swelling in his head made him wonder if the hair-of-the-dog cure might not be a good idea, the nausea that was swelling in his stomach let him know it really wasn't, so he just smiled and said, "No thanks."

He knew he should head back to work, at least pretend that he hadn't royally screwed up, but the embarrassment was still too new, and he didn't think he could handle it today. Not to mention that he smelled pretty heavily of beer and had a hangover that would kill him, if he were lucky. 

If he'd been thinking, he'd have asked Jerry for a magic hangover cure. Or, if he'd been thinking, he wouldn't have seen Jerry at all. One of those two things anyway.

It was only five blocks from the bar to the flat, and the afternoon was just starting to fade into sunset as he reached it. Arthur sighed, wondering what Curt would say about his having spent all afternoon getting drunk. Knowing Curt, he'd probably just ask why Arthur hadn't invited him along. But he was also likely to feed Arthur aspirin and water and put him to bed in that almost motherly way he had when Arthur wasn't feeling well. Arthur had sometimes played sicker than he was just to get Curt to fuss over him.

And Arthur knew just how pathetic that made him, but he was still looking forward to it as he opened the apartment door. 

Except the key wouldn't work.

He tried again, but with no better results. He wondered for a moment if he'd gotten the wrong door, but closer examination just proved that it was definitely their apartment, the same dump he'd been coming home to since he'd moved in with Curt seven months ago.

He was starting to panic, and trying not to think about what this might mean. It had to be a problem with the lock. The doors to this place were always giving him problems. Hell, the doorknob on the bathroom door was always coming out whenever he touched it; it was just one more reason why he hated this place.

But no matter how much he tried to tell himself it was a problem with the door, he knew it wasn't. Curt had finally had enough; had finally decided he couldn't tolerate Arthur anymore. He'd feared this, but he'd also known it was coming.

He stood there for a moment, wondering what he should do. Sitting in his bedroom, drinking heavily, and pretending not to cry while he listened to Curt's albums over and over again seemed a likely bet, but he should probably wait until he could figure out where his bedroom was going to be now before he gave into the impulse. God, his head hurt, and his stomach hurt, and his fucking heart hurt, and he should have asked Jerry to just kill him in the dream.

He rested his hand against the door, wondering if Curt would open it if he knocked. Surely he would, if just to give Arthur his things. Curt wasn't the type of guy who would leave someone stranded just because he'd got tired of them, or at least Arthur had never thought so. Of course, Arthur had thought that Curt would talk to him first before he threw him out, forget changing the locks on the door, so he might not be the best judge of Curt's behavior. 

Before he could sink any further into his thoughts, the door opened, revealing the man on the other side. Who wasn't Curt. Not even close, with his 6'2", approximately 250 pounds of body; black, greasy hair, with stubble that had been 5 o'clock shadow several days before, and eyes that were more than a little scary.

"What are you doing trying to get into my place." The voice was a little scary, too, and even though the muscles the man had were obviously going to seed, like an ex-bodybuilder who was sinking into pudgy middle-age, Arthur was pretty sure the guy could easily win in any physical confrontation they had.

Still, all he could think to say was, "Your place?"

The guy looked at him for a moment, then leaned closer to sniff at him, which was doing nothing for Arthur's nerves at this point. The guy smiled at him, though, and said, "Go home and sleep it off, buddy." 

The door shut with a bang, almost covering up Arthur's, "But I am home. Aren't I?"

Arthur went outside to check the building again. Yes, still the same one. He went back in and looked at the door again. Yeah, that one was the same, too. Nervous, but seeing no way around it, he knocked on the door. And, yeah again, same guy, though no smile this time.

Taking a cautious step back, Arthur tried a smile of his own. "I'm sorry to disturb you… again, but could you tell me where Curt has gone?"

"Curt? No Curt here, man. You've got the wrong place."

"But he was just here this morning, when I left for work."

The guy sighed, shaking his head, and then speaking slowly, as if Arthur were stupid, or crazy. "Look, I've lived here for five years, and there's no Curt here. Not this morning, not now, not anytime. You smell like a brewery, and I'm thinking that's not just because you work in one, so I'm cutting you some slack here. You've got the wrong place, so take off." 

The door shut again, an even louder bang, but Arthur had nothing to say this time. Five years? That was crazy. 

Or maybe he was. 

Maybe the thing with Jerry hadn't been the beer, but his own struggling sanity. Arthur thought about it for a moment, but then shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Even if it was true that he was crazy… or that maybe he'd been crazy before and was now coming out of it, which would explain how he'd wound up with Curt in the first place… he shook his head again. None of that mattered at the moment, considering that it was getting dark, and he had no place to go, and staying here would probably lead to him getting beaten up by the guy who was living in the apartment that was apparently not Arthur's or Curt's, and that course of action didn't sound particularly sane, either. He just had to find some place to go until he could figure things out. 

But where did you do when your life took a turn into the Twilight Zone, and you had no idea on how to find your way back, or even if it was possible?

You went to work, of course.

~*~

3.  
Riding the subway at night wasn't the sanest thing he could do, but Arthur figured that was just a theme for the day and he might as well go with it. He'd only had a couple of dollars left, and he'd figured he'd better save them just in case… well, just in case.

He could feel himself calming down the closer he got to the paper. He needed a focal point, something to orient on and set the crazy tilt the world had taken back to rights, and Lou was the perfect choice because he was solid as hell. Nothing ever fazed him. He'd been in the newspaper business too long to let little things like one of his reporters misplacing their life upset him. If Arthur could just find Lou, he'd fix everything. 

To keep any annoying little niggle of doubt from creeping in, he repeated that to himself as he almost ran up the steps of the building. Lou, step, will, step, fix, step, everything, step, Lou, step, will- 

"Excuse me, sir, but visitors need to sign in before they can get into the building."

Step. Stop. Arthur looked at the receptionist. It was the same one who'd been on the front desk for the last two years. The same one who waved at him every day. The same one who'd smiled at him this morning, even though Arthur had been hunched over himself, embarrassed and wanting to be invisible. Well, apparently Arthur had sort of got that wish, if a little late, because it was also the same receptionist who obviously didn't even recognize him now.

He felt the panic starting to creep back in, but he shoved it down. He couldn't afford to freak out now; it wouldn't help anything. And just because the receptionist didn't recognize him anymore didn't mean that Lou wouldn't. Well, it was possible, anyway. Okay, probably not, but it was all Arthur could think of at that point.

His hands were shaking like he was a junkie, so he shoved them in his pocket and asked, "Is Lou still in?" 

"Lou?"

Arthur's heart started to race, suddenly sure that the person he'd pinned all of his hopes on had apparently disappeared with the rest of Arthur's life, but the receptionist finished with, "Lou Grant?"

"Yeah, Lou Grant."

"I think he's still here. Why don't you take a seat while I see if he's available, sir?"

Arthur nodded, but didn't sit down, the adrenaline running through him making him too twitchy to settle anywhere. He'd figured out the lobby was twenty-five paces by thirty-two paces and had emptied the little bowl of mints that they put out for visitors - which apparently he was now - by the time that the receptionist said, "He'll be right down, sir."

Less than a minute later, Lou stepped out of the elevator, coming over to Arthur with a smile on his face. The smile was the same one that he always gave to Arthur, a sign that things hadn't gone completely strange, and it was so familiar, so welcome, that Arthur almost hugged him, only holding himself back by shoving his hands down even further in his pockets. "Hey, Lou, I'm so glad to see you."

The familiar welcome smile slipped a little. "That's… nice. Is there something I could do for you?"

Arthur's own smile slipped then, as he felt the hope that had flared at the sight of Lou die again. "Don't you know me?"

"Of course I recognize you, Mr. Stuart. I wouldn't be very good at my job if I didn't."

It would be a pretty bad boss who couldn't recognize one of his employees, but the Mr. Stuart let Arthur know that that wasn't what Lou meant. Lou hadn't even called him Mr. Stuart at his interview, forget any time after that. 

But thinking about the interview reminded Arthur that he knew how to ask questions. That he knew how to get a story, the hideous mistake with Walters notwithstanding. If he told Lou the truth, or at least the truth as Arthur thought he knew it, he'd probably be in Bellevue before the hour was out. But with a little care and finesse, he could sound out what Lou knew about the Twilight Zone version of Arthur's life without winding up in a straightjacket.

Except that Arthur still had a headache from the hangover, and he'd had a really shitty day, and he didn’t think he'd even recognize care and finesse if they introduced themselves at this point, so he just asked, "How do you know me?"

Lou tilted his head to the side, studying Arthur as he decided how to reply. "Are you feeling all right?"

"No." Blunt, but honest. With a sigh, Arthur clarified, "I think… maybe I'm a little drunk. Before I came here, I went to the flat where I thought I lived, and the guy there said that I didn't, and then I came here, because I thought I worked here, but apparently I don't do that, either."

Lou tilted his head to the other side. "Hmm."

Arthur waited, but that appeared to be all he was going to get. "But you seem to know me, so I was hoping you could tell me… well, maybe you could at least tell me where I live." If he could just find a place to sleep, maybe he'd wake up back in his own life.

Lou looked at him some more, then nodded. From the look on his face, he'd probably decided that Arthur was either high or crazy, but he'd also decided to play along. "Okay." 

Arthur hadn't been wrong when he'd thought that nothing fazed Lou. He was back to smiling at Arthur, not showing any sign that he was talking to a crazy person. "Why don't I take you home? I'm sure with a little bit of rest, and maybe a visit with your doctor, everything will be fine."

He took Arthur by the shoulder, leading him towards the employee exit and the car park. He got Arthur settled in his car, an ages old caddy that was still in near perfect condition, smiling comfortingly all the time. As he drove out into the city, he told Arthur what he knew about him, the reporter in him unable to resist giving a story. 

"The reason I know you is because you're one of the richest men in town, on several charity boards and associations, and, as such, you've been in the news from time to time. You live on the Upper East Side with your long-time… companion, Curt Wild."

At hearing Curt's name, Arthur felt like a weight had been lifted off of him. Whatever else was going on, at least Curt was still around.

Arthur only vaguely listened as Lou kept talking, filling in the details on a life Arthur didn't in the least remember living. He couldn't help but think about the strange dream he'd had. Couldn't help but think about red turbans, blue nails, and wishes. A wish to be so rich that he didn't have to worry about money ever again. 

What if?

It couldn't be. But… But nothing else about the whole situation could be either, and he was either going to have to believe that Jerry really had given him three wishes or he was going to have to believe that he was insane. Not much of a choice, really, even if he was fooling himself.

As Lou pulled up into the driveway of a very large house, money apparent in every elegant line of it, a smiling Curt in the doorway even before the car had rolled to a stop, Arthur decided he just might like being crazy.

~*~

4.  
Lou, in a fit of tact that he didn't normally possess, or at least not the version of Lou that Arthur was familiar with, refused the invitation to come up for a drink. Arthur was incredibly thankful for this, and had to yet again restrain himself from hugging the man.

Curt was still waiting for Arthur in the doorway, haloed in light - from the hall behind him, from the porchlight, from Lou's departing car - and the sight nearly took Arthur's breath away. 

Curt was dressed like something out of a Ralph Lauren ad. A white button-down shirt, the drape and sheen of which had to be silk, with only half of the buttons done up, letting a tanner chest than Arthur remembered peek teasingly through. White pants, also silk, were clinging to really strategic bits of Curt's body. Arthur was torn between lust and wanting to laugh at seeing him wearing the Miami Vice look that Curt so hated.

It was a moment of disconnect for Arthur. He'd tried to get Curt to wear clothes like that before, and Curt had always laughed at him. Dressing in tight leathers, or undressing in them, had always been more of Curt's stage persona than his real preference. In his day-to-day life, Curt liked comfortable over showy, and the focus on his appearance had always been one of Curt's least favorite parts of fame. 

Arthur had known that, had had his suspicions on why, but had still sometimes bought things he knew Curt wouldn't like in the hopes that he could eventually convince him to change his mind. That he never had succeeded had just been one more thing on his list of reasons to believe that Curt wasn't going to stay with him in the end. But this Curt, the new, possibly wish-produced Curt, seemed to have no problems dressing like something out of one of Arthur's fantasies.

Everything was fantastic to Arthur now, in both meanings of the word, and seeing Curt like that, even as sexy as it was, was just making him aware of how alien everything felt. How alien he felt looking at what might be a stranger wearing Curt's face, and Arthur didn't know what to do. 

Curt solved the problem for him by crossing the distance between them and hugging him hard. That was familiar, and oh so welcome, Arthur long used to Curt's random hugs and touches, and in that moment he felt like he'd finally found his way home.

Arthur pulled one of his arms free, winding his fingers in Curt's hair, thankfully still the same, and pulled him into a kiss. It was deep and wet, warm and welcomed, and Arthur felt the weight he'd been carrying since he'd woke up in another world dissipate.

Curt pulled away, smiling. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to come home. Where were you? Out with your mistress?" Nodding to the darkness where Lou's car had been, Curt gave him a nervous little smile. "Or should I ask if you were out with your mister?"

How was he supposed to answer that? With the truth? Arthur didn't have the strength left to try to explain what had happened, so he just shook his head. "Just got a little lost. Lou was just doing me a favor by bringing me home."

It looked like Curt was thinking about asking more questions, but he just ran a hand down Arthur's arm, nodding. "I'm glad he did. I was worried about you. Come inside, I think Henri kept something warm for you."

Arthur was wondering how to ask who Henri was when he was supposed to already know, when they went inside. He stopped short in the hall, looking around. It was almost bigger than their entire flat was… had been - and that was going to take some getting used to - and it was decorated in a classy, classic fashion. A rug down its length, a small table with a vase, all of it elegant, tasteful. The words Kilim, Chippendale, and Ming went through Arthur's head, and he was pretty sure that the décor, minimal as it was, had cost more than he'd made in his entire life. Well, at least up until that afternoon, anyway. 

Before he could get too freaked out about the weirdness of suddenly being wealthy, he noticed that the very expensive vase was apparently being used as a key jar, which he just knew was Curt's doing. The knowledge that Curt was still Curt even in the new setting and clothes settled Arthur's nerves. It made him laugh out loud, drawing Curt's curious eyes, but he just shook his head, saying, "Just happy to be home."

He was rewarded with a smile, and a, "I'm happy you're home, too. I love you."

They were moving down the hall, passing closed, curiosity-producing doors on either side, and Arthur was trying to figure out how to get a tour of the house he was supposed to already be familiar with, when the last part of that hit him. Curt had said… Curt'd said… Curt had _said_ … and Arthur couldn't even think the words, let alone believe he'd actually heard them

For months he'd waited to, wished to, hear them. He'd hinted, angled, connived, and pouted to hear them. He'd imagined a hundred different scenarios, a hundred different ways of hearing them. With all of that, he'd have thought he'd be a little better prepared for how to respond when he finally _did_ hear them.

The scenarios he'd fantasized about had all had Arthur avowing his love as well, and had then usually descended into unadulterated porn. What actually happened was that Arthur blinked dumbly at Curt, mouth opening in his famous carp impression, followed by the ever popular and extremely romantic reply of, "Okay." 

Curt just looked at him for a moment, a little hurt in his eyes, and Arthur had a sudden sympathy for the Curt that he'd known up until today, the one who'd always seemed to be flustered when Arthur had been the one professing his love out of the blue. Being on the other end of the surprise was harder than he'd imagined.

But before he could come up with a better answer, Curt gave a nervous laugh and kissed Arthur again, covering the awkwardness with something better. Arthur kissed back with all the love that he hadn't said, trying to calm some of the anxiety he could feel in Curt. It wasn't something Arthur was used to feeling from Curt, far more used to feeling it from himself, and he hoped he was doing a better job than he normally did.

When the kiss ended, it was in Arthur's head that all the confusion that he'd felt today had been worth it to hear Curt say he loved him, and it was in his head that he needed to say that he loved Curt, too, and it was in his head that he really needed to exercise some more because surely a little kissing shouldn't have him that much out of breath. But then Curt was kneeling before him, and then Curt was unbuttoning Arthur's pants, and then there was nothing at all in Arthur's head because Curt was sucking all Arthur's thoughts right out of his cock, and it was the most amazing thing ever, just like it had been all the times before. 

When it was over, if Arthur had been capable of anything except sinking to the hall floor in a sated puddle, he would have been embarrassed that he'd come in such a short time. He would have also been embarrassed that someone had walked in on them right at the crucial moment, but apparently whoever it was hadn't been at all surprised by what he'd seen, because he'd just shaken his head and left Arthur to the throes of his orgasm.

Curt was on his knees still, looking at Arthur with a happy little smile on his face, probably from pride of accomplishment, and Arthur couldn't argue with that, as it was well deserved. He didn't want to argue it, anyway, too content to let Curt clean him up, get him on his feet.

Post-coital, he realized how tired he was. It had been an incredibly long day, an eight-day-long-week kind of day, but he couldn't help but reach for Curt, wanting to give a little of the pleasure back. Curt just grinned, squirming out of reach. "You look done in. Why don't you let me put you to bed."

Arthur gave a sleepy mumble of, "Okay," which was apparently his new response to everything, and allowed Curt to take him down long halls, up long flights of stairs, and across a long room to push him down onto a bed that was as big as their old bathroom. Arthur was right in the middle of thinking that he should probably stop comparing things between old and new if he was didn't want to drive himself crazy when he fell asleep.

~*~

5.  
Arthur looked out the window, just one of what seemed to be hundreds of windows in the house, staring out at the beautifully landscaped lawn. There were two men out there making sure that it stayed beautifully landscaped, both of them sweating in the oppressive heat that was New York in August. Arthur wasn't sweating. No, he had so much money that he didn't have to be careful of how long the air conditioner ran. He didn't even have to worry if the power went out in the neighborhood, the city, because he had so much money that there were giant generators sitting in a pretty little building at the back of that beautifully landscaped lawn guaranteeing that he'd never be inconvenienced like that. He had so much money that he could pay other people to sweat for him. It was his wish come true.

He'd never been so bored in his life.

It turned out that having everything he'd wished for was really kind of a drag. No unreasonable deadlines to get a story anymore, no boss looking at him in disappointment, yeah, those were good things. But he missed the paper, missed getting the story under the wire, even with the unreasonable deadlines. He missed Lou, disappointment or not. They'd had lunch this week, and though it was nice to listen to the man talk, it seemed that while Lou had always told Arthur what he was really thinking, Mr. Stuart only got to hear the edited version of it. 

Boring.

And, okay, he was on a bunch of boards and charities, at least according to the paperwork he'd found in his desk, but apparently he paid people to do that type of thing for him, too. Unless it was a dinner or some other big event, which the Arthur who'd never really existed even if everyone knew who he was had liked to attend. The Arthur who did really exist and who no one really knew anymore… didn't.

Boring.

And the house was beautiful, and the lawn was beautiful, and everything was beautiful, except that he didn't feel like he was allowed to touch any of it. It was like staying over at someone's house when you'd just met them; you always had to be on your best behavior and you never felt comfortable enough to just make yourself at home. Yeah, the doorknob didn't come off the bathroom (6 of them for heaven's sake, and when did anyone need that many bathrooms?) door anymore, and the kitchen floor didn't have any holes in the linoleum (not that the house had _any_ linoleum in it, because how plebian), but the furniture wasn't conducive to slouching about in, either.

He'd tried to relax a little, treat the house like any other. He'd put a glass down without a coaster - on a perfectly finished, dustless, antique cherry wood end table - and put his feet up - on a coffee table that perfectly matched the end table - settling down to watch some television. Henri had appeared within seconds, his noiseless approach startling Arthur so much he spilled his drink a little. Henri had a coaster in his hand and the martyr's mien on his face as he stared pointedly at Arthur's feet. Arthur managed to hold up under it almost a whole minute before he put his feet down on the floor and the coaster under his drink. Henri left again just as noiselessly and Arthur debated if the man even had a reflection while he watched the TV. But watching _MacGyver_ while sitting up straight with your drink on a coaster?

Boring.

And Curt. That was the cruelest blow of all. He had what he wished for, Curt saying that he loved him. But the cost was apparently a Curt who was didn't believe it when Arthur said it back. A Curt who was anxious, who wanted to know where Arthur was all the time, and who he was with. They'd had an argument after his lunch with Lou because Curt was sure that Arthur was fooling around with him; that that was why Lou had brought him home that first night, and why Arthur hadn't called. It reminded Arthur of the fight they'd had PW - pre-wish- when Curt had gone out drinking with a visiting Jack Fairy and had forgotten to call, except that Arthur had been on the other side of the fight that time.

That was the scary part for Arthur, really, that Curt seemed to be… well, Arthur. Oh, he still had his own set of quirks, but his insecurity in their relationship, his obvious belief that Arthur didn't love him as much as he loved Arthur, that Arthur was in fact going to leave, all of those were just a little too familiar. Seeing Curt like that was like looking in an emotional mirror, and it was depressing as hell. Especially as Curt seemed to have hit upon what he thought was the perfect way to keep Arthur interested in him, a way of filling their relationship with something as binding as the love Curt didn't believe in was supposed to be: sex.

Boring.

As little as a week ago, Arthur would never have believed that sex could be boring. Bad, yes, God knows he could believe that, but boring? That just went against nature. But Curt wouldn't leave him alone. He woke Arthur up with blowjobs. He gave him handjobs for lunch. His ass was usually on the menu after dinner, with frottage at bedtime. And Curt was good at sex - amazingly, fucking good - that wasn't the problem. The problem was that orgasms were starting to be something that Arthur dreaded, considering how many of them he'd had in the last week.

He didn't know how Curt was keeping it up, so to speak. Arthur was nearly ten years younger and he was starting to have problems, even when Curt was on his knees, his lips red and swollen and wrapped around Arthur's cock, his hair a messy frame to his face and the colors of his eyes just visible through dark lashes. Normally just thinking about something like that would have Arthur near to coming, but now… 

Boring.

Speaking of the devil. Arthur had been so deep in his thoughts that he hadn't heard the approach, but the heat of the body behind him, the reflection in the window, told him that Curt was there. One of Curt's hands trailed down Arthur's arm, the other winding around his waist, fingers sliding between the edges of his shirt, stroking the skin there. It was only 10AM, but Curt must have decided he was hungry again. Or lonely.

But Arthur just couldn't, not so soon. "Curt, I'm really tired after this morning -" 

Curt didn't even let him finish, just slid two fingers into Arthur's open mouth. He pushed them slowly in and out for a second while Arthur tried to object around them, but pulled them out before Arthur got around to more than mumbled speech. He pulled away from Arthur, moving to lean back against the window. He was smiling lightly, but Arthur knew better than to trust him.

"Curt, really, I can't."

He got no acknowledgement to that statement, Curt busy taking off his shoes - a pair of red half-boots that the old Curt, the _real_ Curt who didn't dress just to please Arthur, would never have even spit on, forget wear - and humming to himself.

"Curt."

The humming got louder, and the belt - also red, very thin, with silver accents - was discarded on top of the boots.

"It's not that I don't want you, I do, but there's a limit to what I can do."

Curt was singing now - _Afternoon Delight_ , which the old Curt wouldn't have even _pissed_ on - and the pants - white parachute pants, and Arthur couldn’t even think of anything bad enough that Curt wouldn't have done to them, that's how much the old Curt had hated parachute pants - joined the rest of the stuff on the floor. 

Arthur didn't say anything more as Curt pressed his back against the window, unconcerned that he was stripping in front of the window as he slowly unbuttoned his black silk shirt. He didn’t take the shirt off, just pulled it open a little, a tease of tan flesh against the darker material, as he sank to the floor. When he was all the way down, he angled his hips, the pale flesh of his ass framed by long legs and black cloth. 

The fingers that had been in Arthur's mouth were now in Curt's, his cheeks drawing in as he sucked them, and Arthur closed his eyes, because all protests and weird behavior aside, Curt was still the sexiest thing that Arthur had ever seen, and he really, really didn't want to have sex right now. His eyes stayed closed through Curt's moans, slightly muffled around the fingers. His eyes stayed closed through Curt's laugh, soft and a little breathless. His eyes…

Popped open when he heard Curt's breath hitch, when he could almost believe he heard the sound of spit-wet skin against tight flesh, fingers pushing in, pulling out. Arthur's head was still saying no, but his body was saying that the sight of Curt fucking himself with the fingers that had been in Arthur's mouth was beyond anyone's ability to resist. 

Arthur managed to get his pants undone in record time, his cock hard and ready, Curt hard and ready. Arthur pulled Curt's ass up into his lap while Curt reached his arms up above him, fingers gripping the windowsill for traction. It wasn't slow and gentle, and the spit wasn't near enough lube, but neither one of them cared, both of them hissing at the friction on tender flesh, the pain and pleasure of it spurring them on. 

Arthur was driving in hard, pushing Curt's legs back so far his knees were knocking the wall with each thrust, and Curt was pushing back just as hard, his knuckles white as he held on tight. Curt's cock wasn't getting any attention, but with Arthur slamming against his prostate with almost every thrust, Curt couldn't last for long. He shook, his whole body seeming to squeeze tighter around Arthur, and he couldn't last either, crying out his release.

Curt pushed him over with a wicked smile, but didn't say anything as he used his discarded pants to clean them both up. Arthur closed his eyes so he could pretend he didn't know how fucked up this whole thing was. 

He kept them closed even when he felt Curt's lips on his, but he kissed back, needing the comfort. Then Curt pulled back, and Arthur let his eyes open to watch him walk away, apparently unconcerned about being mostly naked as he went through the house, the everpresent Henri or not.

Well, it wasn't as if Henri didn't already know they were having sex, having caught them several times since that first night in the hall. Arthur did wonder, though, why Curt never seemed to get as many disapproving looks as he did. There was a time when he might have half-believed that Curt was fooling around on him with Henri, but having been on the other side of that equation, and knowing that Curt _had_ to love Arthur as much as Arthur loved him - that the wish had seen to it that Curt had no choice in the matter - Arthur just let it go as one of the mysteries of life. Or one of the mysteries of Henri, anyway. And mysteries?

Boring.

Arthur had had enough. He couldn't take this any longer. He wanted his old life back, complete with doorknobs that came off, bosses who were disappointed, and Curts who didn't say they loved him, but showed it in a thousand little touches, a thousand little ways, that Arthurs had just been too neurotic to accept. He wanted all of it back, and for that he needed… Jerry.

It turned out that the house, besides having what seemed to be hundreds of windows, also had what seemed to be thousands of lamps, bottles, coffee cups, etc. Arthur had tried to be both quick and discreet about rubbing them, but it had still taken over four hours to try them all, and he'd had to suffer through Henri staring at the mess of assorted cups and bottles that Arthur had spread out over the, usually, spotless kitchen counter, with the same look on his face that Arthur imagined his own face had when the President 'explained' why trickle-down economics were good for everyone. It hadn't been fun for anyone, and it hadn't produced Jerry.

Arthur tried to think back past the last week, and thirteen beers, to remember everything Jerry had said to him about how he got called to grant wishes. Bottles: soda, beer, ketchup, shampoo, he'd tried them all, no result. Lamps: what felt like millions of them, but still nothing. Cups: yeah, tried those too, and zilch. But there was something else, something…

With a start, Arthur remembered the other thing that might work. He grimaced, hoping that Curt didn't catch him doing this, because he didn't want to be distracted. And he really, really wasn't up to anymore sex.

Checking carefully that Curt wasn't in the bedroom, Arthur locked the door behind him. Then he made his way over to the nightstand, pulling out the toy that Curt had showed him just last night. He tried not to think about how stupid he must look as he ran his hand over the length of the dildo, rubbing firmly just to make sure. And then.

Nothing happened.

He thought maybe he hadn't rubbed hard enough, long enough, something, anything, because this was his last resort. Harder, longer, with a little twist on the end for good measure. And.

Nothing happened.

Damn it. He rubbed again, jacking the dildo hard and fast and long, and when he finally had to stop he almost asked it if it had been good for the dildo, too. That was incipient hysteria talking, and he couldn't decide if he really wanted to laugh or cry because, of course, nothing happened.

Arthur was irritated and angry, and maybe even a little scared, because he wanted, he needed, to go _home_ , and he didn't know what to do. He wound up throwing the dildo hard, taking a mild kind of satisfaction over the way it smacked against the wall before it fell to the floor, bouncing and rolling - as only a fake rubber cock could do - before it finally came to rest. Arthur's fraying mind supplied the word spent, which made him laugh. And laugh, not able to stop even after he slapped himself.

He eventually collapsed on the bed, riffs of laughter still going through him, and wondered what he should do now.

"Purple, huh? Ooh, and at least ten inches. Quite the kink you have there, Arthur."

Arthur's whole body seemed to jump in surprise. Since he was lying close to the edge of the bed, he wound up falling off of it, looking up from the floor at Jerry. He was still wearing the red turban, but he had changed the black leather Nehru jacket in for a tunic of deep blue silk with a Mandarin collar. Arthur had the thought that it went well with the nails, but that might have been leftover hysteria.

Focus, Arthur knew he had to focus. And maybe hit Jerry, though he really should have expected the bastard to make a grand entrance instead of coming when Arthur expected him to. But the hitting could wait until after he had what he wanted. "What the fuck did you do?"

Jerry just smiled, a smug little expression that did nothing to kill Arthur's impulse to hit him, and reached down a hand to help Arthur up. 

Once he was on his feet, Jerry started twitching his clothes into place, brushing off imaginary lint, but Arthur wasn't going to be put off, slapping the hands away. "Stop that and answer me. What did you do?"

"I just gave you what you wished for. Now that you have some money, I do hope you're going to do something about your wardrobe, because plain button downs and Haggar slacks are really just not the way to go, even for someone as repressed as you are. Perhaps you should ask Curt for some fashion tips."

Arthur chose to ignore the comments about his style and his repression, partly because they were kind of true, and concentrated on what was important. "Fashion tips from Curt are exactly what I'm talking about. Asking about. Whatever. I asked you to make Curt love me, not to turn him into someone else. I didn't ask you to turn him into someone who dresses to please _me_ , and is always following me around, anxious all the time. That's not Curt, and it's not what I wanted." 

Jerry wiggled his index finger back and forth, saying, "Ah, but you did. Well, not directly, but still. You said, and I quote," and here Jerry's voice changed, morphing into Arthur's, slurred with thirteen beers, "'I want all my problems at work to go away, I want to have so much money I'll never have to worry about it again… and I want Curt to love me just the way I love him.' And he does love you." 

He paused, reaching out to tap a finger against Arthur's chest. "Just the way." Tap. "You." Tap. "Loved." Tap. "Him."

Arthur pushed the finger away, but he couldn't even be too irritated. He'd half-way suspected that he'd made the wrong wish, somehow. Curt's turning into a distorted mirror version of himself and Arthur combined had been sort of a clue. No, he wasn't too irritated, but he was angry, and more than a little desperate to get things back to the way they should be. "That wasn't what I meant, and you know it. You knew it then, too, but you went ahead and did this anyway. But no matter what I _said_ , this isn't what I _wished_ for, so I want you to undo it. Set things right."

Jerry's smile moved into beyond impossible areas of smugness as he shook his head mock sadly. "If you'll recall, I told you at the time, and I quote, 'Whatever you wish for is permanent. Wish for it, and it's yours… for always. No do-overs, no take-backs, no morning after regrets.'"

"But it wasn't what I wanted. It wasn't what I meant."

A shrug answered that. "It was what you asked for. And you did accept the conditions." Jerry's voice was back to Arthur's again, drunk and determined to have what he wanted, "'Fine, I accept the wishes, even with the conditions.'"

Arthur sat on the bed, all his strength leaving him. He wasn't going to get what he wanted. He was only going to get what he'd wished for. He could almost hate himself for having listened to anything Jerry said in the first place. 

He did hate himself for not having listened to what Curt didn't say, couldn't say. Curt who didn't trust spoken words, not even his own. Curt who instead talked in the language of touch, hoping that Arthur would understand. Which Arthur had… but he hadn't been able to believe, his own insecurities too strong to trust that Curt's love would be unconditional, that it wouldn’t be withdrawn if he didn't please. He hadn't seen his parents in almost a decade, and they were still far too present in his life.

Both he and Curt carried damage. They'd both been circling each other looking for a catch that wasn't there. If he could just go back, he knew he could learn Curt's unspoken language, could teach Curt how to speak aloud in Arthur's tongue. If he could go back, they could learn from their mistakes. If he could go back.

But he couldn't.

Arthur looked up, thinking that maybe he could beg, but Jerry was gone. Arthur was alone in the room, with only a slightly dinged 10" purple dildo to keep him company. He picked it up, meaning to put it back where it belonged, seeing as he had nothing better to do, but he was distracted by a thought.

If Arthur believed that he and the 'real' Curt could learn from their mistakes, then he should believe that he and the 'fake' Curt could do so also. Arthur knew what mistakes they'd both been making before, especially the ones that he'd been making. That self-knowledge, newly widened, could help both of them now. He'd just have to be patient, careful, and he could get them back to where they'd been. Or where they should have been. Something like that, and he didn’t have time to worry about the grammar now. 

He'd been bored because he had nothing to do. Well, now he had a job, one he was determined to succeed at. 

Arthur looked down, seeing the future in his hands, rather than the brightly-colored sex aid that was literally there. "I can do this. We can do this."

A snort came from the dildo. 

He glared at it for a moment, thinking about breaking it in lieu of hitting Jerry, but rubber wasn't exactly breakable, and who knew, maybe he'd get another chance at slapping Jerry. "Just shut up. I will make it work."

"Says the man who's talking to a purple dildo. Good luck there, sport."

Arthur threw it in the garbage can, ignoring the squawk of protest that followed, and left to go find Curt. They had some talking to do.

~*~

6.  
He found Curt in his studio, idly picking out chords on his guitar. Arthur really wanted to get started on his newly self-appointed job, but he didn't want to interrupt Curt if he was writing. "Are you busy?"

He got a smile and a kiss for an answer, and Arthur figured that was good enough to go on. "Curt, we need to talk."

That was Arthur's first mistake.

It took him nearly four hours, a lot of apologies, and nearly a fifth of Scotch to get things settled. At the end of it, he'd managed to convince Curt that he wasn't breaking up with him, and he'd promised never to utter that sentence again, ever.

Unless you counted the long sigh that Henri made when he found the empty Scotch bottle and the dirty glasses that Arthur had left on yet another antique table, that was all Arthur managed to accomplish for the day.

::::::::::

A couple of weeks later, and several more failed attempts to help things along, Arthur suggested couples therapy as they were getting ready for bed. 

Afterwards, his only clear memory of the event was his sort-of amusement over the mixed expression of horror and determination on Curt's face. The image he had of Curt, riding hard on Arthur's cock for what seemed like hours, thighs shaking with effort, face screwed up with it as he drove Arthur into a joyless climax, was hazy. 

Arthur thought it was better that way.

::::::::::

Arthur quietly padded from the room, leaving a sleeping Curt behind. He knew Curt would be disappointed that Arthur had left before he woke up, but Arthur didn't care. He'd gotten to the point where it was either make Curt more anxious by refusing to have sex or make Curt more anxious by being unable to get it up to have sex, and frankly both results were more than Arthur wanted to deal with right now.

He went downstairs and poured himself a drink; not caring that it wasn't even 7AM yet, not caring that Henri would be giving him the evil eye again, not caring. He was just too fucking tired to care anymore.

Feeling like a ghost haunting the dark, quiet house, he went into the living room where they'd had the Christmas tree set up, lit even at this time of the morning. It was elegantly decorated, expensive and professional looking, as, of course, it was, with matching ornaments in silver and gold, twinkling fairy lights reflecting softly against them. It was beautiful. 

Arthur hated it with a passion, desperately missing the fake tree they'd put up in Curt's flat last Christmas, when they'd still just been dating. 

It had been a tiny little tinsel tree, worn bare in places, that had sat on Curt's coffee table - old, but definitely not an antique, and in need of a good dusting - and they'd had to walk softly around it, because the tree was more than a little lopsided, and any strong footstep would knock it over. The ornaments had been cheap and tacky, and they'd popped the corn for the garland themselves, laughing and stealing pieces of it as they threaded it. The garland had looked incredibly bad against the silver of the tree, the ugly ornaments, but it was theirs. 

On Christmas morning, Curt had put some blankets out beside the coffee table, laid himself on top of them, wearing nothing but a deep-red bow tied around his neck, his flesh raised and white in the cold, but still beautiful as he smiled, said, "Your present's underneath the tree. Why don't you come unwrap it?" They'd laughed and fucked all morning, Curt's voice still breathless from exertion when he'd murmured in Arthur's ear that he should move in with him.

It was a memory that Arthur treasured, but it was killing him now, knowing he'd had what he'd wanted then, and wished it all away. 

He wanted that Curt back so badly; the one that laughed and shouted and refused to dress like Don Johnson no matter how hot he was on _Miami Vice_ , even when Arthur begged. He wanted the Curt back that sometimes just wanted to be alone, and who would ignore Arthur even when Arthur sometimes really needed him. He wanted the Curt back who sometimes had bad dreams and would strike out if touched, and sometimes had good dreams and would wake Arthur up just so he could fuck him. 

Arthur wanted that Curt back and he was obviously never going to have him.

He'd been beating himself against the wall of Curt's doubts and fears for months, and the wall was definitely winning, considering that Arthur was batting .000. The only thing he'd succeeded in was in adding to his own guilt. There was no way he could have known how things would turn out, and he'd never meant any harm with his wish, but good intentions and all that shit had led him here, and every time he saw Curt with that anxious look in his eyes, every time Curt did something he _should_ have hated just to please Arthur, just to appease, it was a reminder that Arthur had wished away Curt's choices. 

He couldn't even escape this mess in sleep anymore. He'd spent most of last night dreaming about a dwarf with Jerry's face, wearing a freakishly long scarf, just like Tom Baker's, wound round and round him until he was almost a mummy, but who still managed to run around squealing, "Just like you loved him," over and over again. 

The memory of the dream morphed into the memory of Jerry's voice listing the conditions of the wishes. _Whatever you wish for is permanent._

_Just like_ and _permanent_ echoed in Arthur's head, dancing and weaving, and mutating into a horrible conclusion.

Arthur went numb with unwanted knowledge. The glass in his hand dropped and shattered on the floor, Scotch splashing over the clean floor, the beautiful tree, his legs. Curt loved Arthur _just_ like Arthur had loved Curt, and he _always_ would. And no amount of love or therapy would change that.

::::::::::

The light was just starting to glow behind the thin curtains in the living room, Christmas morning dawning bright and clear when Curt came looking for him. Arthur was lying on the floor in front of the tree, staring at the lights, his tears and blood from the cuts the glass had made dried by that point, but still visible if someone were looking. 

Which obviously Curt was, because he dropped down to the floor beside him, running hands lightly over flesh that was freezing and pulling away from his touch. He hesitated at that, but not for long. "God, Arthur, what's wrong? What happened?"

Arthur couldn't tell him, still so wrapped up in his grief that he could barely breathe, let alone speak.

Curt cleaned the glass from the floor, cleaned Arthur up, but Arthur wouldn't be moved from in front of the tree, just sat there, letting the lights drown out everything around him. Curt cajoled, and petted, and kissed, and Arthur just let him, passive as he remembered all the times that _his_ Curt had comforted him when he'd been upset, how Curt used to kiss Arthur's fingers when he cut them while cooking.

When Curt slowly pushed him back on the floor beside the tree, pulling his boxers down, touching his cock, drawing the unthinking response from it, Arthur felt like crying again. The memory of the Christmas before was still too close, and he didn't want this on top of it. 

But he was so cold, and so tired, and he wanted to forget about tinsel trees and ugly ornaments and all the other things beyond his reach, so he lay back, letting the warm hands touch him where they would, letting himself forget for just a moment why he shouldn't want this.

Lips were on his cock, trailing tiny, wet kisses down its length, and Arthur spread his legs, letting Curt have as much of him as he could. Curt moved between his legs, hands rubbing soothingly along Arthur's thighs, something more than comfort in his touch on balls already tightening in arousal. 

Arthur had felt this many times before; the touch was familiar from long before he'd ever walked into a bar one early afternoon. He felt a flare of heat as Curt drew the cock into his mouth, sucking lightly at the half-hard flesh, coaxing it to grow, reaching towards the back of Curt's throat, the head squeezing in where the throat narrowed. Curt moaned around it, swallowed, and Arthur burned in liquid heat and pleasure.

He reached down, hand resting in Curt's hair, feeling the strands flow and catch through his fingers as the head bobbed up and down around him, in a pattern that seemed random, but that obviously made sense to Curt and Arthur's cock. Curt's tongue was measuring out Arthur's full length, and Arthur's balls were pulling up tight against him as Curt's hands and mouth brought him right to the edge, even though he never wanted it to end.

But then Curt took him all the way to the back of his throat again, swallowing, swallowing, until Arthur felt like he could only die or come, or both, as the lights from the tree dimmed, disappeared, and he came into a mouth that swallowed that, too.

When Arthur could breathe again, he pulled Curt up next to him, looking into that beautiful face, with its smug smile and the fear in the eyes. It killed the afterglow in a flash, the cold stealing back in again.

Already knowing what he would find, Arthur reached down to touch Curt's cock. Still soft, dry, and Curt's hand was on his trying to distract him. 

The Curt that Arthur loved would have gladly offered him sex, even if he wasn't in the mood himself, it he thought it would help Arthur. But there would have been concern in his eyes, care, not fear. Fear because he was afraid he'd done something wrong, or that he thought that Arthur was angry, or that Arthur was going to leave him, it didn't really matter the cause, because it was still wrong, and even as this Curt was starting to say something, all Arthur could think of was that it was like a rape that the victim initiated.

Or maybe they were just both victims here.

Arthur pushed Curt away, ignoring the questions, the hands that reached for him. He went to the closest bathroom, just a few feet away, and it almost made him laugh to find out that there really was a reason to have so many fucking bathrooms in one house. He calmly locked the door behind him, ignoring Curt's knock against it as he sat down in front of the toilet and threw up the alcohol he'd drank, the thin, liquid remains of last night's dinner, and the grief and pain that were trying to stick in his throat. He threw everything up, until there was nothing left inside, then tried to throw that up, too.

Every time that he thought it was over, he'd hear Curt's voice on the other side of the door, words indistinguishable, but the begging, the tears, clear in the tone. 

Just one stupid moment, when he was both drunk and unhappy, had driven them both to this, and Arthur hunched over the porcelain bowl, gagging out the thoughts going through his head. 

"I wish I'd never listened to Jerry. I wish that I'd never made that wish. I wish I'd never been born. I wish I were dead."

He was repeating the words again and again, a sick mantra in more ways than one, when he heard someone say, "You know, I never liked Curt. I told myself it was because he was coarse, boorish, rude. But I have to admit, now that it doesn't matter anymore, it was probably jealousy over the way Brian chased him. Of course, look where that bit of distinction got him. I'm sure there's a very good moral in there somewhere, probably something like you shouldn't covet what you don't have, because it probably won't be what you thought it was anyway. That's something you're well familiar with, isn't it, Arthur?"

Arthur wasn't surprised when he turned his head and saw Cecil Fiennes standing in his bathroom as if the door hadn't been locked, as if he had every right to be there. Jerry Devine in a red turban, and all that had followed after, had pretty much killed Arthur's ability to be surprised. He could only be happy that Cecil was at least dressed pretty normally, hair and fingernails bare.

He wasn't surprised, and he wasn't curious as to why the man was in his bathroom, either. Curiosity would take too much effort, and might distract him from his misery, which Arthur was too busy rolling in to bother with anything else. However, his mother had trained him to be polite. "Hello."

"Yes, hello. Sorry, forgot all the pleasantries and such. I must say-"

But Cecil didn't say, interrupted by the muffled sound of Curt banging against the door, his voice hoarse and pleading. "Arthur, please. I'll make it up to you, whatever it is I've done. Please just let me in."

Arthur wished he could go back to a couple of minutes before, when he couldn't hear what Curt was saying, but if wishes were horses, he'd be dead, so he turned and looked at Cecil instead. 

Before he could decide what to say, if anything, Cecil nodded thoughtfully, his mournful face looking even sadder than usual. "Even at the height of my jealously, though, I would never have wished this on him."

Arthur rolled his head back towards the toilet bowl, feeling the nausea swell again. He swallowed through it, heard his voice echo against porcelain and water, "No, I did that."

Cecil gave a small smile, nothing of amusement in it. "Right, so you did. And, in a way, that's why I'm here. I represent a certain god-"

Arthur cut him off, not wanting to hear anymore. "Fuck that. I've had enough of gods and wishes. Fuck, I've had enough."

He could feel the tears starting again, but he didn't care if Cecil saw them or not. 

"Yes, well, I would imagine that you had, dealing with Jerry Devine, for gods' sake. He was always slapdash in his dealings, unless he was getting something out of it. But that's neither here nor there right now. This god I represent has the ability to free Curt from your wish. To put him back to what he was before that fateful day."

Arthur laughed, a small cough of a laugh that also had nothing of amusement in it. "And what would that cost me?"

Cecil gave him a real smile this time. "You can learn. That's good to know. And as for cost… well, you did say you wished that you were dead. Would you really choose that, would you really choose to die, if it would free Curt from this?"

Death was, well, death was pretty final, and, yes, Arthur had been saying he wanted to die, but people said those kinds of things when they were upset. They didn't really mean them.

They were both silent as Arthur thought, the sounds from the other side of the door suddenly very clear: a scrabbling sound, soft hitches of breath. In Arthur's mind, he could clearly see Curt leaning against the door, crying, scratching to get in, just like a puppy wanting to get in to see its master.

God. 

Or god. And if he were more rational right now, Arthur knew he'd probably be saying "fuck no!" to Cecil's offer, but he didn't want to be rational. He just wanted Curt to be Curt again. 

Hell, it wasn't as if he was going to have the opportunity to regret his decision this time. 

"Yes. If it'll make things right for Curt. Yes."

Cecil nodded, as somber and elegant as any hand of death could hope to be. "You've got your wish."

And then there was darkness.

~*~

7.  
Arthur woke up.

For all his surety that he was beyond surprise anymore, that actually came as one, seeing as he expected to be dead and all.

Still, he was awake, and obviously the whole thing with Cecil had been a dream, and he was right back where he started. On the floor in the bathroom. 

In Curt's flat. 

Okay, that was kind of a surprise, too.

He sat up, taking it all in: the dingy tile, the tiny shower, the one broken faucet on the sink. Just as shabby as he remembered.

Arthur hugged the toilet, wonky flusher and all, never having been so happy to see something in his entire life. Before he could finish his internal debate of whether he should kiss anything in here or not, there was a banging on the door.

"Hey, you're already running late, and it's not like hiding in the bathroom is going to make facing the people at work any easier."

His knees felt weak, and Arthur wasn't quite sure that he wasn't going to need to _use_ the toilet any moment now, either one way or another, but scared or not, he needed to know. "Curt?"

"Yeah, what?"

"What are you wearing?"

"What, is this like some kind of weird phone sex thing? 'cause I'm thinking you could just come out of the bathroom if you were that desperate."

"No…" Arthur trailed off, not sure how to say what he was thinking, not even sure if he knew. He just wanted to know what to expect before he left his new sanctuary.

"Okaaay. I'm wearing some jeans and my Bad Brains t-shirt. Why?"

"Not parachute pants? Not a white silk shirt? Not-" 

But he didn't get any further when the explosion hit from the other side of the door. "Jesus, Arthur, just forget about it already. I told you I hated that shit, and I'm not going to wear it. If you're so into it, why don't you get some for yourself?"

Arthur hugged the toilet again, happy beyond words, until he remembered that if he just opened the door, he could hug Curt instead.

When he opened the door, Curt was there, Bad Brains t-shirt and all, and he was the most beautiful thing that Arthur had ever seen. He latched on, hugging as tightly as he could, thinking that maybe he had died, and this was heaven. But probably not, as he didn't think that they would let Curt in wearing that shirt. 

Arthur also had the stray thought that he just might buy himself a pair of parachute pants, because Jerry had been kind of right, he really did need a new style. It made him laugh, and he could feel the giddiness of it, but it was all good this time.

Curt hugged back, rocking him slightly, seeming to understand how fragile this moment was. He leaned back in the hug, using one hand to push the hair off Arthur's forehead, leaning back in to kiss him lightly there.

After a moment, he let Arthur go, pushing him back but keeping a grip on his arms, staring at him closely. "Are you okay? I know you drank pretty heavy yesterday, but that doesn't usually make you that sick or anything. Did something happen at the paper that you didn't tell me about?"

Yesterday. He'd gotten drunk yesterday. And Curt had said something about Arthur's having problems facing people at work. Had the last five months just been a fucking dream?

God, or gods, no way that had been a dream. Far too vivid, far too long. But his sins seemed to have been washed away, and apparently those five months might as well been a dream.

And that was perfectly okay with Arthur. "No, everything's fine. Everything's more than fine."

Curt grinned, heading off for the kitchen. "If you say so. Now come get breakfast before you're any more late."

Arthur turned to shut the bathroom door, and the knob came off in his hand. He looked at it, remembering how much he used to hate that. Well, he hadn't kissed the toilet, but this he could do. He put the knob to his lips, kissing it with all due reverence before putting it back in the door.

He looked up, saw Curt watching him with a curious look from the kitchen doorway. Arthur smiled, and Curt smiled back, his entire face lit with it, as if he could sense Arthur's mood and shared it.

Arthur was going to follow him when he found he had need of the bathroom after all. Apparently, he'd drank thirteen beers just yesterday, though his mind still boggled at that, and he could feel them. "I'll just be a moment."

He was just finishing washing his hands when he moved too fast in the tiny room, knocking the mouthwash off of its perch at the back of the sink. His hands still wet, he grabbed at it, bobbling it for a moment before he firmed his grip. Happy at not having to clean any glass up off the floor, he nearly dropped the bottle again when he looked in the mirror and saw a flash of red behind him.

He carefully set the mouthwash down before turning to face Jerry. "Get the fuck out of here. I never want to see you again. And you never want to see me again unless you're looking to get your face punched."

Jerry smirked at him. "But you rubbed the bottle. Are you sure you don't want to try your luck again… now that you know what not to do?"

Unable to stop himself, and not exactly willing to, either, Arthur leaned forward and punched Jerry in the gut. As the man leaned over gasping, Arthur said in his friendliest voice, "Not just no, but fuck no."

And as if it weren't crowded enough in the bathroom, Arthur heard a giggle from the shower, where Cecil was watching as Jerry tried to breathe through the surprised O of his mouth, a fish out of water.

Arthur turned and looked at Cecil, scared suddenly that he hadn't escaped his fate after all. Having seen Curt again, the real Curt, he didn't want to give this up. He didn't want to die.

Cecil just gave him a tiny little smile, more a matter of his eyes than his lips. "I'm not here to be the Grim Reaper. I just wanted to see if you really had learned your lesson, which obviously you have. And I'm here to tell Jerry to stop trying to poach in my realm."

Arthur felt his stomach unknot, his relief almost making him shake, but he couldn't quite yet believe it was truly over, not with both of them standing in his bathroom and Arthur with no idea _why_ things had turned out like they did. The reporter in him couldn't just let the story go, even though he was a little afraid to ask, "Why aren't I dead then?"

His head tilted to the side, his normal sardonic air replaced with one of tolerant amusement, Cecil said, his voice sounding just like Arthur's, "'I wish I'd never listened to Jerry. I wish that I'd never made that wish. I wish I'd never been born. I wish I were dead.'" His voice changed back to his own as he continued, "I told you that I was granting your wish. I never said which of your wishes I was granting."

As happy as he was with the outcome, Arthur really wished that both Jerry and Cecil would stop doing that whole sounding like him thing, because it was freaky to have your own words parroted back at you like that. Like listening to your voice on a tape recorder, only more so. But as he was really happy with Cecil right now, he guessed he could let it go.

While Arthur had been thinking that, a silent standoff had been going on, like something out of a bad movie called Staredown at The OK Bathroom, Jerry and Cecil looking at each other with their best thousand-yard stares.

The silence broke with the first volley, Cecil's voice drawling and sarcastic. "Nice uniform. I really like the nails."

Jerry glared at him for a moment, then raised a hand, studying his nails. "They are nice, aren't they?"

Apparently nothing could keep Jerry's ego down, not even being cooped up in a small bathroom with two other men, neither of whom liked him. He ignored all of that as he continued admiring his hands. "I was afraid at first that they might affect my appeal with the chicks, but you'd be surprised at the number of women who like a man with a bit of color. I'm wondering if I shouldn’t have my toenails done, too."

He held one foot up, now encased in an open-toed platform in blue leather, though it was still very shiny, rhinestones sprinkled all over the upper and the sole, turning it from side to side in front of Arthur and Cecil as if seeking their opinion.

Arthur was beginning to wonder if he wasn't dreaming now, but he was pretty sure that even his subconscious couldn't come up with this much of an acid trip.

Cecil apparently had no problems with the whole thing. "That might be nice, but I don't think blue is the right color for you to use. I knew a man once who did his in black, and it was very stylish. He said that Sally Hanson made some of the best black polish; very shiny, doesn't chip much, and cheap, too."

Jerry's face lit up. "Black? Really? Do you know where he got it from?"

Cecil took him by the arm, and Arthur could hear him saying something about SoHo as they both disappeared.

Arthur was standing there, staring at an empty bathroom, his mind chasing itself in circles, when Curt's shout broke him out of it. "Hey, you! Your breakfast is about to go from done to overdone if you don't get your ass in here soon. Stop primping already, you're beautiful enough as it is."

Arthur took one last look in the mirror before he left, sure that his smile was probably visible from outer space. It was over. It was really over.

He walked into the kitchen, smelling the sausages that were still on the stovetop, the toast that was sitting on a plate beside it. As he came over, Curt smiled slyly at him, turning a kitchen timer to five minutes, and hitting the engage. He set it carefully down on the counter before he jumped at Arthur, knocking him back against the refrigerator, kissing him soundly.

After months of sex he didn't really want, Arthur felt like it had been months without sex at all, and just the feel of Curt, _his_ Curt, in his arms was enough to make him harder than he thought he'd ever been. He kissed back, pushing against Curt, making them both stumble.

They went a couple of steps back, which in the small kitchen meant all the way across it, Curt's arm hitting the toast, scattering it around, a rain of breakfast to the floor. Curt laughed, not breaking the kiss, and Arthur sucked both it and Curt's tongue down, hungry for more.

Curt finally pulled back, both of them breathing hard, but Curt was still moving, down to his knees, opening Arthur's pants, pulling his already hard cock out and into his mouth before Arthur had time to do more than moan.

It was fast and hard, no finesse, all suction. Arthur's knees gave out, and he slid down to the floor, Curt trying hard to follow him down. He lost his grip, so to speak, along the way, and wound up getting poked in the eye by Arthur's cock as he slid back along the floor, trying to get in position again. 

Curt grabbed the errant cock in one hand, tonguing the head before saying, "That wasn't the hole I was thinking this should go in." 

Arthur laughed, the end of it going breathy as Curt took him in his mouth again, sucking and humming around him, tongue rubbing sporadically along the vein underneath. It felt so good, and Arthur's hands pulled into fists, opened, grasping, looking for something to hold onto as Curt sucked him away, only finding linoleum and toast, which he crushed into crumbs while he came, his whole body shuddering in release.

The timer dinged just as Curt looked up, and he let loose a yell, his hands going over his head in victory. "I win! I beat the sausage!" 

He got up, doing a dancing lap around the tiny little kitchen, knocking through the toast and crumbs on his way around, laughing at his own bad pun. Even though it was obvious from the bulge in his jeans that he was still hard, Curt didn't touch himself, reaching down to pull Arthur up off the floor.

Once Arthur was standing, Curt put everything back in where it was supposed to go, dusting off Arthur's pants, smiling but not saying a word. Then he pushed Arthur over to the table, sitting him down while he went back to dish up the sausages and the one piece of toast that had only fallen victim to gravity as far as the counter.

Arthur looked at him, floating on afterglow that was only partially produced by sex, and said, "I love you." It was the fist time he'd ever said it without there being a mixture of hope and dread in his stomach, because it was the first time he'd said it without needing any answer in return. 

Curt just gave his usual easy grin, put the plate down in front of Arthur, a hand brushing lightly along his shoulder, and said, "Eat. You're going to be late."

Arthur heard the "I love you, too," in every gesture, and he smiled as he ate, knowing that one day he'd hear Curt say it out loud. But in the meantime, this was everything that Arthur could wish for.

/story


End file.
